


Shelter

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Father/Son Incest, Feanorian OT8, Gen, M/M, POV Multiple, Sibling Incest, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While roaming one of the remotest regions of Valinor, Fëanor and sons find shelter from a snowstorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> Fills the cannon fodder prompt on my Trope Bingo card.
> 
> Maitimo/Nelyo = Maedhros  
> Macalaurë/Cáno = Maglor  
> Tyelcormo/Turco = Celegorm  
> Carnistir/Moryo = Caranthir  
> Curufinwë/Curvo = Curufin  
> Pityafinwë/Pityo = Amrod  
> Telufinwë/Telvo = Amras

When Fëanáro, Tyelcormo and Pityafinwë went back to the room, hauling a heap of blankets each, the others had already laid out the mattresses on the straw matting covering the floor. Maglor was putting more wood in the fireplace, with Maitimo and Telufinwë at his sides warming their hands to its heat. 

The room wasn't too big, and the fireplace filled it with a pleasantly warm glow. Nonetheless, Carnistir sprang towards the door the moment it opened. His cheeks were still cherry-red, a lingering effect of the inclemency of the cold.

“How many have they given you?” he asked, eyeing the bundles his father and brother carried expectantly.

“Every single spare one they have,” Fëanáro said, throwing the blankets down on the bare mattresses. Tyelcormo and Pityafinwë did the same. Carnistir dived down among them and began unfolding them one by one, examining each with almost reverent gratitude. 

They had been travelling through one of bleakest areas of the remote north-west, when they had been caught in dismal weather. Not just a snowfall, but a raging snowstorm, the likes of which none of them had ever experienced before, and in a matter of moments they had found themselves stranded in the middle of an uncharted forest with dire prospects for the continuation of their journey. Going back had been impossible, but going forward hadn't looked any more promising until they had come upon the village – a dozen houses clustered together in a sheltered dale. The owners of one had very graciously accepted to take them in, given them a meal and a room to sleep in. 

Curufinwë dived among the blankets too, though his goal was different from Carnistir's. He didn't care about which blanket was the warmest. He simply picked out two very large ones, while Tyelcormo, Pityafinwë and Fëanáro took their boots off and left them next to the fireplace. 

“Father,” he called then, sitting down in the centre of the line of mattresses, still fully dressed. 

Fëanáro eagerly joined him, and the two of them lay down together, covering themselves with both blankets. Carnistir, who had been immersed in his examination, was dismayed to realise that not only Curufinwë and Fëanáro were huddling so close they might have been one person, but that Telufinwë was making himself comfortable on Fëanáro's other side. Therefore he blindly grabbed one of the blankets, and before Telufinwë could scoot close to their father dropped down between them. 

Telufinwë yelped as he all but landed on his right arm.

“Sorry,” Carnistir curtly said, while wrapping himself tightly in the blanket.

“I was there before you!” 

A gruff mumble that might have been 'I'm cold' was all that Carnistir said in reply, shifting all his attention to a dogged attempt to lay his head down the pillow Fëanáro and Curufinwë were sharing. 

Fëanáro felt Carnistir's hair tickle his nape and gave a soft chuckle. He rolled over on his back, smiled at his son, and gently pushed him back, finding a satisfying position between him and Curufinwë. 

“Well, who insisted we would find a shelter in the forest sooner or later yesterday?” Telufinwë scoffed, but also hugged his older brother's waist, for warmth as for love, cuddling close behind him, Pityafinwë snug at his own back.

“It's nobody's fault that we ended up lost. It's the first time we come up here, and we had no way of knowing the weather would be this severe,” Maitimo evenly said, tucking his brothers and father in and distributing more blankets evenly on them as they all settled down, before slipping under them himself behind Pityafinwë, in the spot closest to the window, which had been barred to insulate the room from gales and gelid draughts. 

Curufinwë clung to his father, throwing one leg over him. Next to him was Macalaurë, and next to Macalaurë Tyelcormo. They all burrowed in the makeshift bedding. Even with their woolen coats, the blustery winds seemed to have poured cold into their very bones.

“We should not be too far from our intended destination,” Telufinwë said. 

“But further from the coast than we had anticipated...the Outer Sea is nowhere in sight,” Curufinwë contended, noticing while he spoke that Macalaurë's breathing was uneven and that he was moaning softly, whereas Tyelcormo was outright grunting.

“We have to amend the map tomorrow, add that ravine...and this village,” Maitimo said, though he sounded a tad breathless, too.

“Why is it way colder here than in Araman?” Pityafinwë asked, and noticing how Telufinwë kept shifting his feet, entwined their lower legs, rubbing their feet together. 

“The Pelóri, I'll wager.”

Fëanáro was about to elaborate, but was cut off by an impatient snort from Curufinwë. 

“Turco...will you please stop humping Cáno? I'd rather sleep without a blanket flapping behind my back.”

There was silence, and stillness, for a while. Macalaurë wriggled gently, loosening the grip of Tyelcormo's arm around his waist. Tyelcormo sighed. “Sorry,” he murmured, “but I really need to get off.”

“Well, there's something definitely long and definitely hard pressed against my ass too,” Pityafinwë said, voice tingling with the very distinct – and not at all unwelcome – sensation of Maitimo's cock sliding slowly along one of his buttocks and the small of his back. 

“Nelyo...” Telufinwë drawled. 

“Have mercy, I need some diversion too.”

“It'd be better if we could use our mouths –”

“Turco, please,” Curufinwë firmly said. 

Telufinwë snickered. “I doubt you truly want to risk your dick freezing off.” 

“That would be inconvenient indeed,” Macalaurë said, turning on his other side to face Tyelcormo. Before he could do anything, Tyelcormo covered his mouth with his own, drawing him into a hungry kiss, ardent in defiance of the freezing cold. Macalaurë let him do, but when Tyelcormo pulled back for air he put a finger to his lips, which had the effect both of silencing him and of forcing him a little back: Tyelcormo knew Macalaurë's ways well. Macalaurë's other hand swiftly went to his groin. He groped Tyelcormo through his pants for a short but delightful while, then with practiced gestures snaked his hand inside his pants and breeches, and soothed his need.

*

The following morning Carnistir blinked awake to an uniformly dark room. Even without the barred window, there wouldn't have been much difference between the light of Laurelin and Tyelperion in those parts, but the fireplace had gone out too and there was only a very faint glow of embers to his right. Still, he could tell that his father wasn't next to him. Fëanáro never slept much, and he had a knack for getting out of bed without disturbing his sons, even if tangled with one of them. Carnistir sighed. He had never gotten used to waking up to an empty spot, and likely never would.

Fëanáro's voice filtered through the door. Carnistir gingerly scooted away from his brother – Telufinwë muttered in his sleep, but thankfully didn't wake up – retrieved his boots from the row next to the fireplace, and put them back on. Before he left he tried reviving the embers, without much success. The room had grown chilly again, so he picked the blanket he had slept under and threw it around his shoulders as he would have a shawl.

He padded to the door, which he managed to open without making any sound, and stepped into the main room. His father was sitting – looking perfectly prim – next to the hearth hollowed up in the centre of it, talking to one of the two women who owned the house, Ilinië. They both turned towards him. Carnistir greeted them with a good morning that ended in a long yawn. 

Ilinië giggled without much compunction, but Carnistir didn't really care about the comic figure he must cut with his hair bed-tousled and the blanket hanging from his shoulders, feeling blissfully revivified after days of wandering in the cold. “Where is the bathroom?” 

“Over there,” Ilinië reminded him, pointing to a door next to the stairs which led to the loft.

Carnistir scuttled in that direction, and relieved himself as quickly as possible. When he went back to the main room his father and Ilinië were deep in conversation again. 

“...why would you want to go up there?” Ilinië was asking. 

“Just...to see what's there,” Fëanáro simply replied. 

Carnistir came up behind his father and sat down at his left, stretching both hands towards the hearth. Fëanáro smiled at him and stooped over to press a kiss to his cheek. A huge iron pot, of a peculiar shape compared to the ones normally used in Tirion, hung over it by a large hook. Ilinië scooped up a ladle-full of the barley tea it contained and poured it in a mug which she handed to Carnistir, who inclined his head in thanks and wrapped his cold hands around the warm wood, bringing it close to his chest. 

Ilinië turned towards Fëanáro again, gazing intently at him with her extraordinarily bright sky-blue eyes. “There's nothing there. The land is barren and the boundaries of it are...tucked into a pitch-black darkness.”

“You've been there?” Fëanáro asked, sipping from his own cup of barley tea. 

“No...only seen it from afar, on a clear day, once when Elerrúna and I climbed the hill next to the brook a little further north.”

Fëanáro paused and turned towards Carnistir. A quizzical look passed between them. If Ilinië spoke of far, it meant the last border of Aman had to be much further indeed than they had calculated. “Is it _very_ far?” 

“I suppose, we never concerned ourselves much with it.”

“...have you never wondered if there might be something beyond that?”

“Beyond?”

“There are lands out of Valinor,” Fëanáro said, eliciting an unimpressed raised eyebrow from Ilinië – everybody knew the Eldar had come out of Cuiviénen, she herself had – but Fëanáro went on, “there might be more lands on this side, or something else entirely.”

Ilinië frowned slightly and sat back, puzzled, searching Fëanáro's face as if trying to decide whether he truly was serious and if yes, whether he truly believed what he said. She took hold of the ladle and stirred the simmering barley tea, but her eyes didn't stray from Fëanáro. Carnistir blew on his cup and took a tentative sip of the drink.

“At any rate, you can't go there now,” Ilinië said at length.

Fëanáro gave a wry chuckle. “Yes, I had surmised that. Does the snow ever thaw here?”

“...well, it piles high for at least half the year, but there are periods when it doesn't snow at all...around the end of the first quarter of the year. This is the worst period for snowstorms. It likely won't stop for a few days.”

Fëanáro looked across the room to the pantry area, where dried meat and fish were suspended from cords attached to the walls, and shelves were lined with jars and boxes.

Ilinië followed his gaze. “We have much more food stored away in another room,” she said with a grin, her cheeks dimpling. “Anybody who lives around these parts and doesn't have provisions enough to last a whole year is a fool. And we have sheep too, in a shed connected to the main house. We can kill a couple of them at need.”

“Sheep?” Carnistir echoed with marked interest. 

“Yes, Elerrúna is tending to them right now. You could say we owe our survival here to them. That's what you all would need...sheepskin coats, not just woolen ones.”

“Sheepskin...as in their hides?”

“Their hides with the wool still attached to them. Once, when some of our flock were stranded outside in this sort of weather, they survived for three whole days under the snow. They're hardy creatures.”

Just then the door to the side room opened just enough to let a person through. Curufinwë emerged from it, and walked to the hearth on unsteady feet, clearly not entirely awake. He sat down next to his father put his head in his lap and curled up against him, seemingly going to sleep again. Carnistir passed Fëanáro his blanket, which ended up strewn over Curufinwë's body. The two of them kept fussing over him – brushing his hair away from his face, stroking his sides and back – long enough that Ilinië couldn't hide a twinge of suspicion when their gazes met again.

Fëanáro pretended not to notice. “Is Elerrúna your sister?” 

“No, not sister,” Ilinië replied, the warmth of a deep fondness in her voice. “We're not blood-related, to the best of our knowledge.”

“You were both born in Cuiviénen?”

“Yes,” said Elerrúna herself as she entered from a side-door. She greeted the gathering, and briskly took her place next to Ilinië. Her eyes were the light grey which was common among the Ñoldor, unlike her companion's, but her hair was a unique shade of mahogany. “We've spent our whole life together, ever since we settled here. But you should understand the nature of our relationship.”

“Pardon?”

“...I don't believe you are father and sons,” Elerrúna blurted, but then caught a glimpse of Curufinwë's face relaxed in a beatific smile under Fëanáro's loving hands, and being reminded of their undeniable resemblance hastily amended, “...or not _just_ father and sons.”

Carnistir lowered his face to the cup, to hide the smirk that curved his lips. He could see from the corner of his eye that his father tensed somewhat, though he kept stroking Curufinwë's hair with that very tenderness that fuelled suspicion. It wasn't always easy to hide the _true_ nature of their relationship. People did expect closeness, intimacy even, between them, but within boundaries that didn't signify to them. One of the advantages of travelling from place to place and being away from prying eyes was that they could just ignore those boundaries as they pleased. 

“It's not like I care...it's none of my business,” Elerrúna briskly said after a few awkward moments. She poured herself a cup of barley tea and drank half of it. “It's _nobody's_ business, is it?” she added, her gaze impudent and understanding – almost sympathetic – at once. “We will get some stew ready...well, a lot, you are all big boys, and then we'll eat it together if you wish.”

Fëanáro nodded slowly, still on his guard. “Could we perhaps help you with the cooking?”

“Why? You are guests...and princes.”

The title was uttered only half-seriously: it mattered very little in those regions who was king of whom. 

“Men of the Ñoldor usually cook.”

“You'd be surprised to know that women cook quite well too, then,” Ilinië jested. “It will take longer than usual, but there isn't really much to do while the snowstorm still rages. It will help us pass time.” 

“You are the best diversion to come our way in a while, in fact.” Elerrúna emptied her cup, heaved a hearty sigh, and fixed her lively, inquisitive eyes on Fëanáro again. “You wake your other sons and...clean up, I guess. I will heat some water for you.”

*

In the side-room, the fireplace was rekindled to full capacity, and the water-basin Elerrúna provided them with was set down next to it. 

Maitimo had gently roused the twins and, as was their wont whenever they awoke, they had washed each other and sat down in a corner, tending to each other, sharing quiet moments of intimacy into which they rarely allowed their father, and even more rarely their brothers. Telufinwë was brushing Pityafinwë's hair with an old comb that lacked several teeth, but still slid smoothly through the twins' large curls. 

Curufinwë was sinking his hands in Macalaurë's much thicker mane, trying to untangle as much of it as was possible.

Carnistir sat behind Tyelcormo, and distracted himself by twisting his silver hair in thin braids. 

Maitimo helped his father take a very quick half-bath, the last of them to wash and get dressed again. 

“I think both ladies heard you when you came, Turco,” Curufinwë breezily said, feeling Macalaurë purr like a cat under his hands. “So now they suspect we don't just treat each other as family.”

“It didn't help that you screamed 'father' by...uh mistake,” Macalaurë weighed in. “And that your mind was so open an elephant could have sauntered into it.”

There was unanimous laughter – or near-unanimous. Carnistir had mercy for Tyelcormo, for once, and just kept braiding his hair, which partly eased Tyelcormo's embarrassment, at least until Telufinwë decided to prod him from the cosy alcove that was his twin. Pityafinwë and he had switched places, and now it was the older pampering the younger. 

“Really, Turco, it's hard to mistake Cáno as father...next I expect you to mistake me for Curvo.”

“I was sleepy, okay?”

“Oh no, I understand how you feel. We have been getting too little recently, of sex and of father, haven't we, Moryo?”

Carnistir shrugged at the dig: Telufinwë was right on both counts. 

“...couldn't we –” Pityafinwë began with some hesitation.

“Hm?”

“Couldn't we just have sex after we eat, since they know about it? I mean, we need to pass time...too.”

“We shouldn't make a mess of the bedding with this weather,” Curufinwë said. His concern was sincere enough, but not paramount: he wouldn't have minded a night of sex while they had a roof over their heads.

“They will have to wash them anyway if we have to stay a few days,” Pityafinwë reasoned. “We can wash them before we leave, it wouldn't be the first time. I'm sure they have ways to dry their laundry if they spend a large chunk of the year snowed in.”

Tyelcormo shifted so that he could face his brothers, but remained very close to Carnistir, leaning into him like a giant puppy. He voiced his agreement with unabashed enthusiasm. The previous night's groping with Macalaurë had hardly sated his desire. “...all on all, all on father?”

Maitimo finished tying Fëanáro's belt with a wicked grin, and sat down on the beds next to Curufinwë, beckoning Fëanáro to follow. “All on father _and_ Curvo,” he purred, turning towards his younger brother. “Who agrees?”

Macalaurë, Carnistir, Tyelcormo and the twins immediately lifted their hands in assent. Curufinwë raised both eyebrows in mock-surprise, then nodded his head with a coy smile. 

Fëanáro let himself be pulled in Maitimo's arms, and sighed. He could have withdrawn his assent, of course, but he always gave his sons whatever they asked, and it was hard to even take a denial into consideration with Maitimo's warmth behind him, Curufinwë still smiling right in front of him, and the others' expectancy coiling about him like caressing hands. 

He nodded too.

**Author's Note:**

> About the men of the Noldor cooking, HoME X says: "Among the Noldor [...] the cooking and preparation of other food [i.e. apart from lembas] is generally a task and pleasure of men."
> 
> The story was inspired by another quote in HoME X: "Fëanor and his sons abode seldom in one place for long, but travelled far and wide upon the confines of Valinor, going even to the borders of the Dark and the cold shores of the Outer Sea, seeking the unknown."


End file.
